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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214624">(this is not) how to love</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberries_Pen/pseuds/Blueberries'>Blueberries (Blueberries_Pen)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SladeRobin Week 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Auction, Captivity, Collars, Comfort, Crying, Deception, Hurt, Injury, M/M, Panic Attack, Robin is sad boi, Slade is nice but also still a bastard, SladeRobin Week 2020, after the bad guys win, in my noncon?, lube?, more likely than you think, no beta no edit cuz I'm a fool who's writing these the day of so we die like mne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:28:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,066</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueberries_Pen/pseuds/Blueberries</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the bad guys win, the good guys are dead along with chivalry, Robin is Slade's prize, going to him after months of captivity.</p><p>He's wary, but Slade is... suspiciously nice.</p><p>.</p><p>"Don't call me that. I don't want you to call me that." </p><p>Slade doesn't deserve to, not after what he did.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>SladeRobin Week 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1984930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>117</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>SladeRobin Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>(this is not) how to love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I am uploading this, sneakily, from my laptop even after I have been confined to bed (for a completely ordinary reason. i have not, unfortunately, been kidnapped my any sexy white haired one eyed mercenary)</p><p>this was slow to write cuz I kept thinking about how sad robin is and that made me sad ;w; he is a sad boi</p><p>the title is called much cuz I am absolutely fed up with Slade's shit and you should be to</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Day 2:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Superman is dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Clark.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Wonder Woman is dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Diana.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Batman is dead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>...Bruce. Alfred. Babs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin's eyes burn, but he stubbornly doesn't cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So are his friends. So are the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Titans. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Everyone… is gone. Dead, or sold off. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>damned </span>
  </em>
  <span>cattle. He doesn't know why he's been allowed to live for so long, when he's watched so many of those he knew disappear one by one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wishes he had powers – maybe then he'd be able </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>something, save them, make a difference, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maybe then he would have been deemed enough of a threat to have been killed off first, instead of being forced to live every day and do </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It's his turn, today. They drag him to a stage, maskless, clothed in nothing but a plain white shirt and loose pants, and he limps onto it slowly. His eye flickers, apathetic. Faces he recognizes, faces he don't. There's an idle hope it'll either be someone who'll kill him quickly, or someone who he can escape easily from, but where would he even run </span>
  <em>
    <span>to?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Starting the auction of Richard Grayson, formerly known as Robin," they announce, and he sees the murmurs start. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Numbers rise, and keep rising. With Bruce dead – he </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathes</span>
  </em>
  <span>, staring into stage lights above – he's the last remnant of the Bat's legacy, and many, </span>
  <em>
    <span>many </span>
  </em>
  <span>people want a piece of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A cruel face, painted in white and a mouth splitting grin, stands out among it all, and Robin goes cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Joker</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Batman's killer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin should wish him dead, but what would that accomplish? Bruce would still be dead. Bruce wouldn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>him to kill. And besides – he's in no state to fight anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The count rises ever higher, but the Joker keeps bidding. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He wants me, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Robin realizes, heart beating faster. He remembers how Bruce's body had looked – everything that had been done to him. How Joker had kept playing with him for weeks, aired on television for all to see.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe Robin is a coward, but he doesn't </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. Hasn't he suffered enough? Doesn't he deserve an </span>
  <em>
    <span>end?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"Going once, going twice–!"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Double," a smooth, deep voice cuts through and Robin freezes. He hasn't – hasn't seen Slade since their fight with Trigon, but he could never forget that voice – the one that had haunted so many of his dreams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gaze flickers down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn't… hadn't thought Slade would come.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for damaged goods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows, mouth dry, meets Slade's gaze from across the room, and stumbles after the attendant. There's words exchanged, and he's pretty sure the Joker is burning an ugly glare into both of them, but Slade doesn't lift his eye from him, and Robin doesn't either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The attendant gives him a leash, the other end clipped onto Robin's collar, and Slade barely has to tug on it before Robin falls into step behind him. If he blinks, Robin can almost pretend that it's that time, so long ago, that he's just a blackmailed apprentice following his master.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it isn't that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That time is </span>
  <em>
    <span>utopia </span>
  </em>
  <span>compared to now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn't speak to him, doesn't even </span>
  <em>
    <span>look </span>
  </em>
  <span>at him, but Robin knows he's paying attention because he slows perceptibly when Robin stumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What a time to be living in – to be reduced to be reliant on the kindness of a man that was once his archnemesis.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because what Slade did, taking him on, taking him away from that room of bloodthirsty monster's in human shapes that would eat him alive? Compared to whatever Slade would do to him, they would have made him suffer every second, drawn out every moment till he screams himself hoarse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Slade – Robin </span>
  <em>
    <span>has </span>
  </em>
  <span>worked under him – Slade is fair. Harsh, at times cruel, but fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's why he doesn't hesitate to follow Slade out. Better the devil you know, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he doesn't – doesn't quite understand, what Slade wants from him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pushes him into a car, following after him, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>doesn't speak. There's a polite distance between them, and Slade seems to be content to stare out the window. The car starts, moving, buildings and rubble blurring, and still, there are no words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin keeps stealing glances back at the man, tensing more and more until he can't keep quiet anymore. "I'm not going to make a very good apprentice, you know," he says dryly, glancing down at his knee. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That singular blue eye turns to look at him, finally. "I know," Slade answers lightly. "That's not why I bought you." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin swallows, feeling very small beneath that gaze. "Then why?" Robin asks bitterly, voice cracking. "To </span>
  <em>
    <span>gloat? </span>
  </em>
  <span>To kill me? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?"</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn't answer, but instead he raises his hand and lifts it to his mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn't </span>
  </em>
  <span>– the mask comes off. It's a lot more anticlimactic than Robin expects, just a shock of white hair and stubble on a face that's so perfectly Slade's. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin remembers, being so small, listening to Bruce explain why kidnappers showing faces was such a bad thing. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If they show you their face, they have nothing to lose – because they </span>
  </em>
  <span>won't </span>
  <em>
    <span>let you get away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade is going to kill him, or keep him, and Robin doesn't know which he would prefer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That cold blue eye appraises him and Robin feels so, so small. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You know what I want, Robin," Slade says, voice careful, like he's afraid of setting Robin off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...Oh. The thing is, Robin </span>
  <em>
    <span>does. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Even if he hadn't seen some heros brutalized right on the auction floor, even if Wonder Woman’s rape hadn’t been televised for all to see, he remembers Slade's slimy gaze on him, his lingering touches, always </span>
  <em>
    <span>watching. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Remembers scrubbing himself for hours, once he got back to the Tower, just to get the feeling of being watched </span>
  <em>
    <span>off.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He cried on the shower floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade hadn't even touched him, not really – not done anything truly inappropriate in that sense aside from just </span>
  <em>
    <span>looking</span>
  </em>
  <span> – but he had always wondered. If he hadn't escaped, what would have happened?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed he's about to find out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You want to fuck me," Robin says, blankly, not sure whether to laugh or cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pulls his closer, presses their bodies flush together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm </span>
  <em>
    <span>going to </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck you," Slade corrects, voice still soft and careful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What if I don't want to?" Robin asks, voice cracking, breaking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I bought you," Slade says, matter of factly. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You don't get a choice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Slade means. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His head is blank, empty of thoughts, because he doesn't want to think. "If my leg – if it were – "</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It wouldn't have changed </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Robin. I’ve won. All of you heroes – you’ve lost. There’s no need to fight, really. I don't need an apprentice anymore," Slade says.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin should still protest. Scream and rage and deny, fight back and say that Slade could never, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever –</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But his family is dead, and Robin has spent weeks suffering and he is </span>
  <em>
    <span>broken. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He can't win. He trembles instead, in helpless disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade must mistake it for fear, because he adds, "I wouldn't hurt you, Robin. Not as long as you cooperate, and even then, I have no intention of </span>
  <em>
    <span>damaging</span>
  </em>
  <span> you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin shudders, and bites back a sob, and whispers, loathing clear in his voice, "I'm already damaged."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I don't care," Slade says, and it's so </span>
  <em>
    <span>blunt, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so </span>
  <em>
    <span>honest, </span>
  </em>
  <span>that Robin laughs but it turns into a sob, collapsing more and more on Slade until he's sobbing into Slade's shirt. This is pathetic – </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>is pathetic, so pathetic, but there’s no stopping this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh, Robin," Slade sighs, and pulls him on fully on Slade's lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"S–sorry," Robin gasps, clenching his eyes shut and trying to push it back like he had been these past weeks, but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can't. </span>
  </em>
  <span>"Shit. Damn it!" he chokes out, trying to push away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've been keeping it all bottled up all this time, haven't you?" Slade asks gently, pulling him back in. "Haven't even given yourself time to mourn all these deaths. It's </span>
  <em>
    <span>alright</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Robin. You're safe. No one will hurt you. You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>cry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. Let it go, now, kid."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And maybe that permission is all Robin needs, to break down and </span>
  <em>
    <span>cry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>hand fisting in Slade's shirt and </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hates Slade, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, how dare he be so </span>
  <em>
    <span>considerate, </span>
  </em>
  <span>so fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice, </span>
  </em>
  <span>when he said he was going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>rape </span>
  </em>
  <span>him? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it's not even Slade he hates, really, but the entire damn </span>
  <em>
    <span>world </span>
  </em>
  <span>for being this way</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>For taking everyone from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For leaving him behind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For leaving him </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Hasn't he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Isn't it enough, that he watched his parents fall to their deaths right in front of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>eyes? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Isn't it enough, to have been ripped away from the only family he ever knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>once? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Isn't it enough, to have been </span>
  <em>
    <span>fired, </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have what he was clinging to to live taken from him? Isn't it </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>...why did people never stop just </span>
  <em>
    <span>taking </span>
  </em>
  <span>from him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How much </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>will he lose before it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Why does he have to lose everything </span>
  <em>
    <span>all over again?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sobs, sobs and </span>
  <em>
    <span>sobs, </span>
  </em>
  <span>pent up weeks worth of tears that he held back out of a futile sense of pride pouring out, staining Slade's shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bruce will </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>clasp his shoulder again or give his awkward hugs, Alfred will never scold him for staying up too late again or bring him cucumber sandwiches, no more laughs and late night patrols with Babs, and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Titans–</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"It will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Slade promises, soothing and solid, and Robin wants to latch onto it, wants to believe it – but it's a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lie.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>How could Slade ever think that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No it </span>
  <em>
    <span>won't," </span>
  </em>
  <span>Robin chokes out, muffled. "They're all – everyone is –"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even now, he can't bring himself to say it aloud, can't make himself feel like it's </span>
  <em>
    <span>real.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><span>Instead he gasps</span> <span>out, pained and pleading, unable to stand spending another moment thinking of Bruce's </span><em><span>bloodied cold dead face stretched out in a inhumane grin – </span></em></p><p>
  <span>"They broke my knee, Slade," he whispers, hurting, eyes blurry. "They </span>
  <em>
    <span>shattered </span>
  </em>
  <span>it." His voice cracks, and he sobs, again. He hadn’t even done anything to warrant it – it had been early on, and one day, that had just been </span>
  <em>
    <span>done. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Because some fucked up higher up had gotten bored and felt the need to see him </span>
  <em>
    <span>scream.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not – I can't –" He can't say this either. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Pathetic. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The Flying Grayson's – his parent's legacy, his tie to his past, his first identity – it's all gone, now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's never going to fly again. No more running on rooftops. No more flips. No more Robin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a little bird, spasming on the ground, wings clipped, waiting for the day it will inevitably be crushed beneath a boot. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Slade’s boot.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He presses his mouth against Slade's armor and </span>
  <em>
    <span>screams </span>
  </em>
  <span>until he has no more breath in him, until his head spins dizzy with it. He takes ragged breaths, loud and noisy, crying in a way he hasn't since he was a child.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm not okay," Robin whispers, desolate and defeated. He never will be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade's hold on him is heavy and present and real and </span>
  <em>
    <span>here. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It shifts, wavers between being comforting one moment and suffocating the next, and Robin isn’t sure which to believe. He isn’t sure of anything at all, after his once unshakable faith in heroes and all that is good have been so thoroughly crushed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You will be," Slade says firmly, like it's set in stone, but Robin… he doesn't have the heart to believe in him, either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>–</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes ache by the time he stops, eyes puffy and red, still dripping that occasional silent tear. Slade never stops him, just holds him and lets him cry, for that – whatever the reason may be – he's grateful. He can't even bring himself to be ashamed for it – far too drained and numb for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade will hurt him, later, but this car ride is a hazy in between state, before they really descend into what's entirely Slade's territory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands curl in his hair, still petting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin should get off Slade's lap, go back to sitting a polite distance away, but it has been weeks – </span>
  <em>
    <span>months?</span>
  </em>
  <span> – since anyone touched him with any measure of kindness and Robin is so, so weak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stays, tired and spent, on Slade's lap, in his embrace, the entire ride, and Slade doesn't breathe a single unpleasant thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin tries not to think about the price of this kindness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Robin. Come on, kid, we're here," Slade says as the car stops, but makes no move to dislodge him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin thinks of all that Slade has promised, all that he will do to him, just because he can. It should make him scared. Frighten him. But now, more than anything, he's just tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hollowed out, like pieces of his heart were carved out – they might as well have been.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin thinks he should move, but his limbs are lead, and it's just… more than he can manage, right now. He shifts, feebly, then falls still again, wincing as pain shoots up his knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The car door clicks open, and Slade carries him out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I can walk," he says hoarsely, and Slade looks down at him with an unreadable expression, stilling. He wonders, for a moment, if Slade is going to carry him all the way there – like such a helpless, useless </span>
  <em>
    <span>child –</span>
  </em>
  <span> but Slade shifts him to his legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still slips a hand under Robin's shoulders, though, supporting him. Robin doesn't complain, only making a futile attempt to stand on his own weight before he relents and sags against Slade's weight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was given painkillers before the auction, so that he could walk and not look </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>damaged, but they've long since worn off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn't comment, just lets Robin take slow step by step, go at his own pace. Robin almost wishes he were being kicked along like a ragdoll instead. Slade isn't this nice. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>shouldn't</span>
  </em>
  <span> be this nice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin walks, but he's tired and weak and still barely present in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>here.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>They reach the door, and with a word, Slade shifts him onto his arms. Robin doesn't protest, this time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>–</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Robin?" Slade asks, and he blinks slowly. He’s sitting in a bathtub, still clothed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"With me? You zoned out for a bit there, kid." It's not said accusingly, more off handed, like an idle thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"...why are you still calling me that?" he asks quietly, tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What, 'kid'?" Slade reponds, fiddling with the hand shower settings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No." He couldn't care less why Slade calls him that – the man is old, anyway. White–haired, so ancient, probably. "Robin." He was sold under his legal name. Slade knew it, even if he didn't before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pauses, regarding him neutrally. "Wouldn't you prefer that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin flinches, arms embracing his knees. “I’m not…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t deserve that anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doesn’t deserve the title of a hero when he’s failed his duty so </span>
  <em>
    <span>badly. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Doesn’t deserve to be the Titans’ Robin, when he’s let them down so badly. Doesn’t deserve to be Batman’s Robin, when he had to watch his mentor get tortured and </span>
  <em>
    <span>die </span>
  </em>
  <span>without being able to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything. </span>
  </em>
  <span>At this point, he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>it, either – doesn’t want to hold such a heavy weight. Can’t bear to be expected to be a hero, to save the world or whatever when he can’t even save </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And Robin – Robin is meant to </span>
  <em>
    <span>fly, </span>
  </em>
  <span>whether it be on a rooftop or on a trapeze</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>can’t, </span>
  </em>
  <span>now. It seems stupid to hold onto a name that only reminds him of what he’s lost. His parents, his family, his friends, </span>
  <em>
    <span>everything.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t feel like Robin,” he says, hollowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s your name,” Slade points out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head slowly, burying his head between his knees. “I don’t want to </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>Robin,” he whispers, barely audible, but Slade hears him anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Slade says agreeably, after a beat. “Dick, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t surprise him that Slade already knows his preferred nickname. Slade doesn’t half–ass his research, he knows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It's what Bruce calls – </span>
  <em>
    <span>called</span>
  </em>
  <span> – him. He blinks, quickly. His parents, too. They called him Robin, too – but that's too painful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gives a tiny nod, barely a jerk of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright,” Slade says, and that’s that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands touch Dick’s neck, and he jerks his head back before he feels a weight disappear. He raises his hand, gingerly touching his neck. It’s empty. He lifts his gaze. Slade’s hands are holding the shock collar, nonchalantly throwing it into the trash bin in the corner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick stares. It’s been on him ever since he was caught, and without it, his neck feels strangely… empty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” he whispers, eyes burning. Why let go of a method he could use to keep control of Robin so easily? There are burns around his neck, from when the guards had used it on him. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Easy to make people comply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You can't run in your state anyway – and I don't need something so crude to control you," Slade answers easily. His lips quirk up. “I told you, Dick. I don’t intend to hurt you unnecessarily.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Key word being ‘unnecessarily’. But it’s hard to put his guard back up, to make himself question and doubt everything, when they’ve come crumbling down so hard. He says nothing, still not quite believing Slade’s claim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to undress you now, kid – you can’t shower with your clothes on,” Slade says, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>makes Dick tense right up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the little things like that that remind Dick he has no agency over his fate here – ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>going to’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>instead of ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>can I’ – </span>
  </em>
  <span>inevitability of a decision already made instead of a request Dick could deny. Slade is his owner, now, and Dick – merely the good he purchased. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” he asks sullenly, hugging his knees tighter. “I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because your immune system sucks since you’ve been stuck in a prison cell for three and a half months,” Slade says bluntly, and Dick’s head shoots up, eyes wide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at Slade, eyes wide. “No,” he denies. “You’re wrong. It wasn’t that long, I would have noticed.” It can’t have been that long, since – since everyone –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were caught in summer, Dick,” Slade reminds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Summer, when everything fell. When the world went to hell. When Kori fell, and Dick wasn’t fast enough to catch her. He was supposed to be there for her, for all of them, and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s autumn now, kid. You can see the leaves tomorrow,” Slade says, his voice dragging Dick back to the present.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick blinks. “You would let me out?” he asks, focusing on that instead of how he had apparently lost track of time inside there. Slade never let him out, before. Always kept inside the hideout, always kept on a short leash, only going out for missions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposes that’s the difference between pets and apprentices are different – </span>
  <em>
    <span>pets </span>
  </em>
  <span>need to be taken out for walks sometimes, he thinks, bitter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Slade answers. “It’s a big property – nowhere for you to run.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that Dick </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>run, goes unsaid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers clasp around his wrists, prying his hands easily away. Dick’s breath quickens. “Slade–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t hurt you,” Slade repeats, like if he somehow says it enough times Dick will start believing him. “Just going to clean you up for now, kid. Nothing else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick shudders, eyes wet. “I can do it myself,” he protests feebly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to.” Slade just </span>
  <em>
    <span>will, </span>
  </em>
  <span>either way, and Dick just has to put up with it, because he’s just a stupid, dumb </span>
  <em>
    <span>child </span>
  </em>
  <span>that can’t save anyone, not even himself. His hands fall limp, and Slade unbuttons his shirt and pulls off the pants without any fanfare. They didn’t give him any underwear, back at the cell, so just like that, Dick is exposed entirely to Slade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He feels very small, Slade towering over him, Slade’s gaze on him lingering as it alway does. Dick very carefully doesn’t look up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But water sprays over him, hot and blissful, and Dick almost immediately melts. He hasn’t been able to enjoy hot water in ages either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A washcloth, soapy rubs over him gentle but firm strokes, washing off dirt and grime, and he feels a flicker of shame as he remembers how he had probably gotten it all over Slade’s uniform, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes flick up, briefly. Slade’s not in it, anymore, having switched out for a loose shirt instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade carefully works the washcloth around his injured knee, and it’s just nice, being touched like this. The only jump that Dick gets is when Slade suddenly wraps it around his cock – freezing up – but Slade doesn’t linger, passing over it quickly and lifting him briefly to wipe under. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the soapy residue is washed away by a spray of water, and as Slade makes no move to touch him again there, instead massaging his fingers into Dick’s hair and working shampoo into it, Dick slowly relaxes again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No one has touched him like this, in, well, forever. Not since he was a child, still taking baths with his parents. It’s soothing, almost too much after so long without, but it’s still </span>
  <em>
    <span>nice. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick waits for the other shoe to drop, but he still can’t help but get caught up in the sensation of fingers in his hair, rubbing into his scalp. He’s been hit, been kicked, been punched and beaten and laughed at and mocked, and been able to keep a hold of a glare and scowl and kept his head high through it all, but here, with Slade, he just starts crying, again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn’t comment on it, just going ever gentler and slower with his fingers, and making Dick cry harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is stupid. So, so, stupid. So why can’t Dick just </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposes he’s just stupid, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cries until his eyes ache, Slade doesn’t say a word still, just spends far longer than necessary toweling Dick’s hair than necessary to give him a chance at composure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Dick stops, Slade has him bundled up in a towel, carrying him away and setting him on a counter, shivering slightly. The bathroom is warm, but he’s still naked. He hopes Slade’s gone to get him clothes, but goes cold when he sees what’s in Slade’s hands instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he says immediately, scooting back and hunching onto himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s more comfortable than the other one,” Slade says, like that makes it any better. “It’s just leather, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick’s eyes sting. Slade’s kindness was nice while it lasted, but he should have known better than to fall too deep into it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know why this feels like a betrayal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>should have known better, </span>
  </em>
  <span>damn it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not some animal,” he says, trying to be loud, but his voice just cracks, instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Slade agrees, voice placid. “You’re just mine. Come here, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick doesn’t, curling further against the mirror behind him, clutching the towel and bringing up his knees defensively. He shakes his head. Let Slade punish him if he wants. Dick has been punished before – by Slade, by the guards, by fate itself. What does it even matter –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade tugs him forward with a sigh, and quickly snaps the collar around his neck before Dick can do more than flinch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes, shallowly, against Slade’s chest, waiting to be hit, for Slade to yell at him, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>something, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but all Slade does is curl a hand in his hair and rub gently. Dick doesn’t understand. He raises his eyes, looking into the mirror, into the new addition to his neck. It’s a familiar weight, but lighter. It's soft leather, sitting snugly against his neck, and silver letters proclaiming to all who owned him standing out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like a pet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes sting, and he turns away, closing his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t want to see himself like this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mine, kid,” Slade says, voice soft, fingers still carding through his hair. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>take care of you. Think of this as something to remind you, alright?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not an offer – it’s an order, one Slade expects him to follow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not allowed to say no, am I?” Dick whispers in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Slade agrees, and lifts him up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course he isn’t – Dick fell, and this is the consequence. He should have never even hoped for otherwise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade carries him out into a large, comfortable bedroom, and Dick tenses, again, heart speeding up. It’s Slade’s room, clearly, and Slade isn’t heading out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s heading to the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slade?” Dick asks, trying to keep his voice steady, hand clenching in the shirt. “Where are my clothes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to bed, boy,” Slade answers easily. “You won’t need them now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick swallows. “Not even pajamas?” he whispers in a small voice, eyeing the bed with trepidation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Slade says, voice impossibly gentle, as he sets Dick down. Naked. On Slade’s bed. “They’d only get dirty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dirty, because Slade –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>– he wanted to –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>– to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dick –</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick lashes out blindly, but Slade catches hold of it easily. He’s weak, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>weak. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick’s kicks don’t even make Slade flinch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down,” Slade tells him, and Dick bites back something that’s half a sob and a half a laugh. “You’re going to hurt yourself, boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you’re not going to rape me now?” He can’t do it – not – not so </span>
  <em>
    <span>soon, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick can’t take it. He can’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I will,” Slade answers and Dick really does sob, this time. “But it’ll hurt less for you if you cooperate, Dick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s not fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>point, </span>
  </em>
  <span>though. Dick is no stranger to pain, this isn’t about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that – </span>
  </em>
  <span>he just wants his body to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>his, </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that so much to ask for? When will people stop just </span>
  <em>
    <span>taking </span>
  </em>
  <span>from him? Why can’t he keep his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>body, </span>
  </em>
  <span>if nothing else?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slade,” he implores, eyes wet and hands going limp. In everything else – aside from the collar – Slade has been good to him, </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick might have even mistaken Slade for a halfway decent person. But then, this. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he begs, because he is too weak from his captivity to go anything else. “Don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in Slade’s eye softens, and he reaches forward with a hand, brushing back the still wet hair clinging to his forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to be okay,” Slade says, but Dick can’t believe him until Slade says he won’t. “I know you’re scared, kid, but this </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>happen, and waiting will just make it worse. Getting it over with sooner is better. It won’t be anything you can’t handle, Dick – you’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’ll like it eventually – beg for it, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick can’t imagine ever desiring Slade in such a way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he’s over Dick, looming above him, large and imposing – and Dick doesn’t have a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop,” Dick whispers, frantically pushing weakly at Slade’s chest. Slade doesn’t even seem to notice, bending his legs up, exposing Dick’s ass to him. His legs strain, but Slade has always been stronger, and after months of being starved and beaten, of a knee he can barely straighten, Dick can’t even dream of getting him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade’s hands which had been caressing his hair so gently before, now run over his ass with clear intent. Dick’s hands shudder and fall, fisting the sheets beneath him as he blinks back tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Click. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A bottle is flicked open, and oil drizzles over Slade’s fingers, some dripping down to Dick’s skin below.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright,” Slade repeats, but he’s still there, between Dick’s legs, intent unchanged. “I’ll stretch you out – you’re not going to get hurt, kid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade keeps on saying that. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurt. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick doesn’t know whether Slade refuses to understand that there’s so many more ways to hurt someone other than physical, or whether Slade knows but just doesn’t care. Or simply cares too much about his own desires to care.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>point,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick says, flinching as oil coated fingers trace his rim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even if Slade were to treat him like a goddamn princess, to wait on him hand and foot, to provide him with every damn comfort he could ask for, to do everything to ensure that the only thing he got physically from this was pleasure, did everything to make sure there was evidence of that, or even if he made Robin ‘</span>
  <em>
    <span>like it’ </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he so liked to say, that would </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>erase the fact that Robin said no and Slade didn’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is rape, Slade violating his body and autonomy and </span>
  <em>
    <span>taking </span>
  </em>
  <span>just because he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>...of course it will hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers pause, and Slade looks at him directly. There’s no pity on that face, only a mild sort of curiosity. “Then what is?” Slade asks, like he’s expecting an answer, like he’s genuinely interested, but the </span>
  <em>
    <span>second </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick opens his mouth Slade presses a finger in and whatever words Dick had are turned into a gasp instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Distraction. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Stupid. Dick shouldn’t have fallen for that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers clench tighter, and his breaths quicken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s – it’s odd, to have a finger up there, when he hasn’t ever even experimented there himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s just another thing Slade has taken from him, now. The first of so many more that he’ll take this night. This is supposed to be with – with some he </span>
  <em>
    <span>loves, </span>
  </em>
  <span>someone he cares for, somehow who he is supposed to giggle and laugh with nervously, who’ll beam with him when they wake up together, hold hands in the hallways and steal kisses when no one’s looking and get teased by their friends the next morning, but that won’t matter, because they’ll have each other and that would be </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough –</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, there’s only Slade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade, everyday, for the rest of his </span>
  <em>
    <span>life. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This is happening.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade won’t stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick tries to breathe – but why is the air so stifled?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade’s too close, too big, too </span>
  <em>
    <span>heavy, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and it’s not letting him </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“S–Slade,” he chokes out, gasping, breathes too shallow. “I–I can’t–” The finger presses in deeper, all the way to the knuckle, and Dick cries out softly, lashes wet with tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick,” Slade says, voice steady, which is fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid, </span>
  </em>
  <span>because if Dick could, why the fuck wouldn’t he already? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he just lays there, mouth open but no air filling his lungs, an invisible pressure keeping him down and pressing into chest, all while Slade’s index finger keeps on slowly pumping into him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“G–get o–off,” Dick manages to get out, looking up at Slade pleadingly, but Slade stays atop him, and Dick’s words only bring him down closer. His face came closer and closer, hand closing around Dick’s neck, breath warm on Dick’s face as he hovers mere inches away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could knock you out, if you want,” Slade offers, finger pumping away, loosening Dick up while his other hand tightens around Dick’s neck. “You can sleep through it – won’t even have to feel it, this time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick’s eyes widen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Being unconscious – at Slade’s mercy – as he did whatever he wanted with his body –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought alone makes his skin crawl and his stomach retch unpleasantly. “N–no,” he whispers, voice so quiet it barely reaches his own ears, but Slade hears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade sighs, exhale almost burning on Dick’s cheek. “Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>breathe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>kid,” he repeats, like it’s supposed to be easy, and Slade just makes it </span>
  <em>
    <span>worse, </span>
  </em>
  <span>as he lays almost entirely on top of Dick, chest to chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No escape. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Even through the shirt, Dick can feel Slade’s heart beating steadily atop his own thudding one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Match your breaths to mine, Dick,” Slade murmurs, lips brushing the top of his head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>His </span>
  </em>
  <span>breaths are steady. “In, one two three; out, one two three; in…” Slade continues, voice soft, as he waits for Dick to ride out his panic attack or simply pass out – either one works for Slade, he thinks faintly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick doesn’t want either one, but he knows which he wants </span>
  <em>
    <span>less. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>So he tries to force himself to breathe, to make his body </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>In…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick inhales, shallow and shaky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade thrusts his finger in, steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Out…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick exhales until his lungs are heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pulls it out to the tip of his finger, a slow slide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>In…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He breathes in, as deep as he can.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pushes in, as deep as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Out…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything about Slade is, if not exactly the most pleasant, </span>
  <em>
    <span>steady. </span>
  </em>
  <span>From his heartbeat to his breaths, to his voice to his fingers. And Slade is… overpowering. Consuming. Drowning out Dick, and it’s like there's no choice </span>
  <em>
    <span>but </span>
  </em>
  <span>for his lungs to obey and do exactly as Slade commands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slowly, steadily, Dick breaths stabilize again, his fingers relaxing their hold on the sheets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s even almost used to the presence of Slade’s finger in his ass now – when Slade slips another one in beside that. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Slade,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he inhales sharply, breaking rhythm, and Slade’s lips quirk up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t intend to keep finger fucking you the entire night, boy,” Slade says, amused, like it’s a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>joke. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Another time, maybe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick wants to scream at the reminder of what Slade is planning to do to him, but he bites his lip and keeps quiet instead. Stays focused on his breaths, on not spiralling into his own head, which is strangely harder now without Slade’s voice guiding him and the new stretch in his ass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade is keeping his promise, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t hurt, not much, slickened with oil and loosened by the first finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It almost makes him impatient, anxiety spiking as he remembers what, ultimately, Slade intends to put in his ass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a huff of breath, fingers pushing in deep and sending a shuddering sensation through his body, Slade asks, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Still </span>
  </em>
  <span>scared, little bird?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick turns his head to the side, and refuses to answer. No point to it, if Slade refuses to change his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Slade doesn’t accept that, fingers abruptly scissoring inside him and making him gasp. Dick bites his lip again, immediately after, hard enough that he tastes blood. He regrets it, though, when Slade swoops down, teeth nipping and tugging at Dick’s own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes, mouth going slack, enough for Slade to suck along the bottom lip, tongue flicking out and licking away the blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Slade pulls away, there’s a… almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>tight </span>
  </em>
  <span>look to his eye. “If you want to get hurt, boy,” he says, voice just as tight, “You ask me. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>do it yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is to be forbidden to Dick?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s my body,” Dick says, quiet.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>it,” Slade snaps back, abruptly shoving in a third finger, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>burns. Dick flinches in response, a soft cry escaping him as he shrunk back into the pillows. That seemed to make the man soften, a little, voice lowering back to normal levels but he still continues, “You’re mine now, kid. My </span>
  <em>
    <span>property, </span>
  </em>
  <span>in this new world. You don’t get to be hurt – not unless I do it or order it, got it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fingers push in, bit by bit, and slowly, Dick untenses around them again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But something niggles at his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Order. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you always want this?” Dick asks, voice a little breathy. “Were you always going to buy me? Take me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Order</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Slade agrees easily, fingers slowly moving. “You were always going to end up here, kid, one way or another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Order</em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“So would it be okay for you, if someone you ordered had hurt me instead?” Dick asks, voice utterly blank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade stills.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick looks him in the eye. Slade had been an instrumental part of their victory, he knows. A major player. If he was interested in Robin, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know Robin had been captured. Had to know his condition. And if he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>always </span>
  </em>
  <span>wanted Robin, why not get him earlier, or just visit to </span>
  <em>
    <span>taunt </span>
  </em>
  <span>him, if nothing else? </span>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Which higher up ordered his kneecap to be broken?</em>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <span>...the guards all wore helmets, and bulky clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick wouldn’t be surprised if Slade had been there. Watching him. Hurting him. Breaking him down, till he couldn’t fight back when Slade finally claimed his prize. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trembles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade says nothing. Doesn’t even bother to put up a pretense.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking bastard,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick hisses, crying, all the rage and loathing he could muster packed into that statement. “You. Fucking. Bastard!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade, nonchalantly, goes back to lazily thrusting his fingers, but Dick isn’t having it. He screams and squirms, hands beating against Slade’s shoulders, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Slade keeps his arms pinned easily with one hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick shouts obscenities until his voice goes hoarse, all while Slade’s fingers just keep on fucking into him. Slade knows him. As much as Dick hates to admit it, Slade </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. He had to know, how much full facility of his legs meant to Dick. But he had taken that away, clipped his wings, for </span>
  <em>
    <span>no reason. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick hadn’t even been able to make a single escape attempt, before it happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> He sobs as his screams die out, only leaving him with a broken, “...</span>
  <em>
    <span>why?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted you as an apprentice because you had potential – a lot of it. But I don’t need an apprentice, now,” Slade says, twisting his fingers inside and leaving Dick gasping. “Just a pretty little bird to warm my bed. And I couldn’t have that, kid, not when you were still seen as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>threat. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not when you had such a high likelihood of </span>
  <em>
    <span>escape.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that meant you had to </span>
  <em>
    <span>shatter </span>
  </em>
  <span>my </span>
  <em>
    <span>knee?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick demands, voice rising, bordering on hysterical.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Slade says simply, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick stares at him in disbelief. “I hate you. Fuck, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>you,” he says, voice hoarse but no less vehement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I still had things to take care of, Dick, otherwise I would have overseen your recovery myself,” Slade says, almost apologetically.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick wishes he had the strength to strangle the man. “That’s. That’s not the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking point.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s like talking to a wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade’s fingers slip out, and he pushes his knees up again. “Then what is?” he asks, and Dick has but a moment to feel a panicked sense of deja vu before there’s the blunt pressure of something hard flesh against his rim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He freezes, like a deer caught in the headlight, then begins struggling in earnest, trying to wiggling out of Slade’s hold, anger overtaken by fear. “Don’t – Slade – </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t please – “</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>This is a man who ordered his kneecap broken just to prevent the mere possibility of escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick doesn’t know why he still shrieks in surprise as Slade pushes in, the head popping in easily after all the stretching. But Slade is still big, stretching him open more than the fingers ever could, and Dick feels dizzyingly faint as he looks at how much of Slade’s cock remains still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade is inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is not something that can be taken back, ever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he’s crying, all over again. “Haven’t you done </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he gasps, hands going limp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn’t push in all the way immediately, keeping Robin still and slowly pulling in and out, watching the head enter and and exit, maddeningly slow, stretching Dick’s hole open and close, and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>tortuous. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade’s hips snap forward, and all of a sudden, he’s buried almost halfway within Robin, and Robin lets out a choked out yell, more in surprise than in pain. There’s a slight burn and the </span>
  <em>
    <span>stretch, </span>
  </em>
  <span>fuck, but it doesn’t stop it from feeling all too </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong </span>
  </em>
  <span>inside him and he squeezes his eyes shut. Slade shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be touching him, shouldn’t be fucking him but he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Robin </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>it but he’s weak, so damn weak and so damn pathetic–</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hands on his cheek, wiping away tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s warm, so warm and </span>
  <em>
    <span>reassuring, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and Dick hiccups, not wanting to open his eyes. If he pretends, he can pretend it’s someone else –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it still hurt, little bird?” Slade murmurs, and Dick opens his eyes. Fucking hell, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>painful </span>
  </em>
  <span>to see how damn concerned Slade looks, when they both know damn well it’s Slade who put him in this position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick laughs, bitter. “Would you stop?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would make sure it hurt less,” Slade says, unfazed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he hadn’t hurt Dick beyond repair already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade pulls out to the tip again, making Dick shudder, and more oil is dribbled onto his cock, slicking it up before he pushes back in. The slide is much smoother, this time, and Dick counts his breaths in his head and tries not to get sick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tries not to think about how Slade is inside him. He’s never been so intimate with anyone anymore. Tries not to think about how it’s Slade’s cock inside him, filling him. Tries not to focus on how his legs shake. Tries not to think of Slade’s hands on his hips, of how hot his breath is against Dick’s skin, of how gives little grunts every time he presses into Dick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tries to think of nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Be </span>
  </em>
  <span>nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closes his eyes, and breathes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Slade doesn’t like be ignored, shifting, and then – suddenly –</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dick gasps, as Slade brushes a spot inside him that makes his toes curl and his cock jump. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thinks faintly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade chuckles. “See? You’ll enjoy this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick shakes his head in denial. “No, Slade, I don’t want it – </span>
  <em>
    <span>ah!” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he gasps again as Slade hits it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you to enjoy it,” Slade says, and so, Dick’s opinion didn’t matter </span>
  <em>
    <span>again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade thrusts in, agonizingly slow, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it's so slick but but enough friction still to make him grip the sheets beneath, enough of a stretch to make him want to bite his lip again, and when Slade hits and grinds against his prostate, it sends sparks of toe curling pleasure across Dick's spine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick doesn't want to enjoy it, not one </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but Slade doesn't give him a choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What Slade wants, he gets, and he knows far too well how to play Dick's body like a fiddle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick looks at Slade, and regrets it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's </span>
  <em>
    <span>smiling</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>smirking, </span>
  </em>
  <span>not </span>
  <em>
    <span>cruel</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but with something…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soft. And tender. Fond. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like he gave a damn about Dick when this is abundantly making clear that Slade only cared for his body. As a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>trophy.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He let you cry on him. </span>
  </em>
  <span>To keep him distracted, not attempt an escape, not open the car door and throw himself to the mercy of the highway.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He didn't mock you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Not being an asshole didn't make someone a decent person.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He took care of you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Cleaned him, just to prepare to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>raped.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick shudders, a sob wreaking through his body. Slade didn't care, so for fuck's sake could he just stop </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretending?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand, warm, wraps around his cock and he whines. "Don't, Slade, just get it over with please –"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick is shushed, instead, Slade leaning down to kiss away his tears and all that does is make him cry harder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn't fair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing is fair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick </span>
  <em>
    <span>hates </span>
  </em>
  <span>this.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>does.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But it feels good, just like Slade said it would, and he writhes helplessly in the sheets. He wants to sink into it, drift away and give himself over to pleasure and forget all the dead and lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This isn't</span>
  <em>
    <span> fair.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>If Slade keeps it up, one day, he'll start to crave it, and that </span>
  <em>
    <span>terrifies </span>
  </em>
  <span>him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Will he even remember everyone's faces, months from now?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or will he be on his knees begging Slade to fuck him just like Slade said he would?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn't him much room to think, fucking him so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweetly </span>
  </em>
  <span>and the strokes to his cock are so firm and </span>
  <em>
    <span>steady. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Grounding. Kisses, peppered along his jawline, on his forehead and collarbones and under his collar like Slade has no fear of Dick biting him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick should, honestly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But captivity taught him fighting back </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>…But Slade hadn't hit him, when he refused to wear the collar. But Slade is hurting him </span>
  <em>
    <span>now. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick squeezes his eyes shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't understand Slade at </span>
  <em>
    <span>all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He just lays there, paralyzed, as Slade breaks down all his defences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Slade presses his lips to Dick's own, and then tells him, in a rough voice, "Come for me, boy," Dick can't disobey, can't hold back the pleasure that built up any longer. He comes with a sharp cry, shuddering, crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade is still inside him, fucking, but he only lasts for a few more second as Dick's insides spasm around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Don't–!" Dick gasps, breathy, but Slade is already balls deep in him, and has no compunctions about coming in him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade stays in him a second longer, and leans down to give him another kiss, open mouthed, nipping at Dick's lips, and tongue pressing into Dick's mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tastes like coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bitter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he parts at last, slipping out, leaving Dick bitter and empty and cold with only the cooling heat of Slade's come inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick lays there, crying silently because he no longer has the strength to sob, while Slade moves around. Runs wet flannel down Dick's abdomen, over his cock, and around his rim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't react, either, when Slade slides in beside him and pulls the sheet over them both. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doesn't do anything, until Slade tucks his head under his and drapes an arm over Dick, pulling him close.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick should pull away, but he's tired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leans into the mass of curls on Slade's chest – soft – and takes a shuddering breath, forcing himself to stop crying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shouldn't be relying on Slade for anything at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But </span>
  <em>
    <span>three and a half months.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick had spent three and a half fucking months without a single kind touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>aches </span>
  </em>
  <span>for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wonders if Slade planned this, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It'll be alright," Slade promises again, fingers carding through his hair. "You'll be fine. You just need a while to adjust. You enjoyed it, didn't you?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No," Dick says, voice muffled and wreaked in the mass Slade's chest hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You did, Dick," Slade says wryly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like they were merely lovers, quarreling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Joking around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick breathes, and counts to ten in his head, then pushes away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade doesn't let him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Go to sleep, Dick," Slade murmurs. "You're tired, now."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I changed my mind," he insists, hands curling in Slade's chest hair and tugging. He frowns, looking up. "Don't call me that. I don't want you to call me that. I–I'd prefer Robin."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade arches an eyebrow. "Why."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade hadn't asked for a reason, before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My parents called me that." His </span>
  <em>
    <span>family </span>
  </em>
  <span>called him that. And Slade – Slade isn't that. Slade doesn't deserve to call him that, not after what he did. He needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember </span>
  </em>
  <span>that. Robin – that name will help him remember that Slade </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn't </span>
  </em>
  <span>kind, that Slade doesn't care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade's lips curve, and the hand petting him stops. "Tell me the full truth, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dick."</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick flinches, looking away. "I – you're not my friend. Not – not family. I can't–" He takes a deep breath again, eyes stinging. He can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>Slade do anything. He should have never asked to be called anything else in the first place. "Slade, please." His voice is small.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A finger tugs on the collar, forcing him to look back up. "No, I'm not your friend, kid. I'm your master, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>do as I please with you," Slade says. "The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for you."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dick swallows the lump in his throat, trying not to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade sighs, and fingers card through his hair again. "Go to sleep, Robin, you need it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin blinks in surprise, looking up with wide eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Slade rolls his eyes. "I don't intend to be a cruel master, kid. I won't fuck you anymore tonight, if that's what you're worried about. Now go the fuck to sleep."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin relaxes, a little relieved, and nods jerkily. "O–okay." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He buries his face in Slade's chest, blinking, and if Robin, instead of sleeping, cries instead, Slade doesn't mention it, just a steady presence that keeps holding him, petting him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Robin sleeps, eventually, breath matched evenly with Slade's, the beat of Slade's heart thrumming in his ear his lullaby.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Slade, the entire car ride: do not fuck the crying child. do not fuck the crying child. do not -<br/>Slade, the entire fic: love me love me love me<br/>Slade just wants Robin to be safe and bundled away ;w;<br/>was gonna include a scene where Slade is like 'tada! you can move your legs cuz nanobots! for medical science! but only when you're within range of me of course' and then he'd take Robin down to a gym and Robin would call Slade a bastard again, but *coughigottiredcough* this seemed like a nice ending point so this is what you get</p></blockquote></div></div>
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